Gypsy Boy Read online

  So I kept it to myself, hating myself, hating what I was, trapped by it and terrified of somehow being found out.

  By the time I was twelve I was battered by the nightmare of puberty. Body hair sprouted, my wisdom teeth appeared, and for several months my voice persistently changed mid-sentence, plunging an octave, from Kate Bush sound-alike to Barry White. Kenny found it very amusing, teasing me at every available moment. But I gave as good as I got, reminding him that he was a rather haggard twenty-six.

  As the year wore on and we travelled from one site to another, most of the time I rode in Kenny’s truck with him. It was a relief for me to be out of my father’s sight and with someone who seemed to genuinely like me. We laughed and bantered, and he played me his collection of country music tapes, and in my sad and lonely young heart I fell in love with him. I convinced myself that he might love me too and often imagined us running away together. But of course, I didn’t dare speak of this to Kenny.

  Once I had turned twelve my father began teaching me to drive, so that I could be the chauffeur for him and the other men every pub night. I got plenty of practice, since pub night was every night, but I was happy to do it because that way I got to spend the evenings with the older men and, more importantly, with Kenny. It was far better than staying at home where I had become a sitting duck for other Gypsy boys to come and beat the shit out of me. With no men around there was no one to stop them, once I was out cold. At least if I was challenged in the pub, my father and the other men would be there to see a fair fight, and to stop it if need be.

  The men often managed to find a ‘Gypsy friendly’ pub that would provide an after-hours lock-in. I would be kept waiting, sitting quietly alongside them, chewing on the straw of a pint of orange squash till two or three in the morning.

  One Friday night my father ordered that I stayed at the camp to fill the tar barrels and load them onto the back of the lorry. It was midnight before I finally crashed into bed, only to wake at two to hear my father’s truck rumble onto the campsite and the sound of ten drunken men wailing out one of their favourite Elvis ballads. Frankie, on the opposite bunk, muttered ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake’ and buried her head beneath her pillow.

  The truck rumbled like a tank across the gravel, before coming to a halt in front of our trailer, its headlights left on full beam. The men poured out, and for the next half hour they took turns lurching in front of the truck to claim the spotlight and slur a drunken song. I sat up and watched them through a crack in the blind. I chuckled to myself as Kenny stumbled in front of the headlamps for his turn.

  He always sang the same old Jim Reeves song, an ode to his lost wife. ‘Put your sweet lips, a little closer to the phone, let’s pretend, we’re together, all alone.’ He sang it both word- and pitch-perfect and his voice cracking as he struggled through the final bars.

  Finally the men said their goodnights, and one by one they vanished into the darkness.

  Only Kenny, my father and Uncle Matthew were left.

  ‘Goodnight then all,’ said my father, stumbling towards his trailer. He struggled pathetically with the zip of the awning and once inside I could see him falling about in desperation, trying to find the door handle of the trailer. After a couple of minutes he gave up.

  ‘Bettie!’

  No answer. He pounded at the door like Fred Flintstone.

  ‘Bettie!’

  Suddenly there was a loud splash and the crash of smashing crockery. He had tripped and fallen into Henry-Joe and Jimmy’s old bathwater, taking half a table of crockery with him.

  ‘Open the fffukinnn dooare!’

  The door was flung open and he finally disappeared from sight.

  Now only Kenny was left outside. I slipped on some shoes and went out.

  The night was humid and sticky and the smell of cigarettes and alcohol hung in the air. I opened the car door, reaching inside to turn off the beams, which were still on. For weeks I had been longing to tell Kenny how I felt. Now it seemed my opportunity had come. The walls of my stomach felt as though they were being torn apart. I needed to tell him how wonderful he was, how I would never leave him, hurt him or break his heart. I would plead with him to save me, and take me away from my father. But would he listen? Would he feel the same way? Or would he be shocked, and tell my father.

  Either way, I had to take the risk.

  He was leaning against the side of the truck, vomiting.

  ‘You all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Mikey Boy!’

  He wobbled upright, putting his arm around my shoulders.

  Just then, a loud crash came from Uncle Matthew and Aunt Nancy’s trailer, followed by screams and the chorus of their newly woken children joining in.

  Uncle Matthew was known as a henpecked man, but when he got drunk he was transformed into a raving madman. His reputation, post ten pints, for being a foul-mouthed, wife-beating, destructive Mr Hyde was a colossal joke amongst the men.

  But Aunt Nancy wasn’t averse to throwing the odd punch herself. Living next to them was never dull. Not a week would go by without at least one trailer-rocking fight between the two of them, followed by the smashing of anything in the trailer that could make a sound. The fights usually finished with the both of them bursting out the trailer door, rolling about on the plot, and clawing at each other until a big enough group of us could tear the two of them apart.

  The two of us watched from a safe distance as Matthew fell from the trailer, quickly followed by flying plates, cups and a Nintendo, which bounced off of his cowering shoulders.

  ‘I’m going over,’ said Kenny, obviously worried that his boss was about to be murdered by his wife.

  I grabbed him by the arm. ‘Don’t, Kenny, leave them to it.’

  ‘I gotta see if he’s all right. I’m coming, Matt,’ he bellowed, lurching towards their caravan.

  My mother opened the window behind me and leaned out, her pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘I was helping Kenny, Mum, but he’s gone to Uncle Matthew’s.’

  My mother paused and stared at me. Then she turned inside. ‘Frank, get up. Kenny’s going to get himself killed.’ She turned back to me. ‘Mikey, go to bed before he gets out of this trailer and finds you.’

  I leaped back to the trailer and into my bed. I watched through the blinds as Uncle Matthew dragged Kenny onto the plot and kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. ‘You fucking (kick) Gorgia-bred (kick) bastard!’

  Kenny rolled across the concrete, pleading for mercy. ‘You’re my friend, Matt, I love you mate, please!’

  My father stepped out in his jeans and braces.

  ‘Frank! Help me! Please!’ Kenny called.

  But my father watched in silence, smoke from his cigarette curling around his pitiless face, as Matthew continued to punish Kenny for interfering. Kenny was weeping uncontrollably and screaming for help. It was terrible to see him.

  Eventually Matthew stopped. ‘Get up, go home, pack up your stuff and get out of my sight.’

  Kenny squirmed on the ground holding his guts. ‘You’re all I got, Matt. Please don’t make me go away.’

  Matthew grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him from the plot. Kenny turned back to Matthew, holding out his arms. Matthew picked up a rock and threw it at him. It bounced off his brow and knocked him to the ground.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  My father walked over and passed Matthew a cigarette. They muttered quietly, watching Kenny disappear, sobbing, into the night.

  I felt sick with grief. I watched from the window, crying and praying that he would return and take me with him. I grabbed my coat and boots. I had to find him before he left without me.

  The other men from the camp arrived outside, wanting to know what had happened. As questions flew and he started to sober up, Mr Hyde exorcised himself from Matthew’s body and he began to weep with guilt for what he had done. He set off to Kenny’s caravan at a run, calling over his shoulder, ‘I got to get him back
, Frank.’

  My father and the others dived into the truck once again, charging off into the darkness, to search the roads and fields for the missing dossa.

  I crept out of the plot and into the dark.

  The first place to look was the most obvious. Kenny’s small trailer was parked in the gas bottle storage yard, a mile down the lane from the rest of us. When I got there the main gates were locked, so I ran to the sturdiest part of the fence, clambered over and fell face first into a burnt orange sea of empty canisters glistening in the darkness.

  Across the yard was Kenny’s trailer. A faint light came from inside and I could see a shadow, moving. I began to battle through the army of bottles, heaving them out of my way until I got clear and ran towards Kenny’s door.

  At that moment he appeared in the doorway. His face was frozen, like a man possessed. He shoved past me, picking up two new gas bottles and taking them inside with him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said desperately.

  ‘Go away.’

  He shoved past me again, and collected another two bottles. He carried them in, shutting the door and locking it behind him. A fearful hiss screamed from inside and in that moment I understood.

  He was going to kill himself.

  I leaped at the locked door, tearing it from its rusty hinges and stood, gasping for breath, in the doorway. Kenny was sobbing, matches in his hand and all four gas bottles on full blast.

  ‘Get out!’ he wailed, throwing a chair at me.

  ‘I won’t,’ I shouted, taking hold of the chair and sitting on it.

  He leaped at me, grabbed me by the hair and threw me from the doorway. In desperation, I climbed to my feet, leaping back inside.

  The air had become thick and poisonous with gas and his face changed shapes through the distorted atmosphere. This time I made sure he couldn’t get rid of me; I wrapped myself around the central leg of his table.

  He threw the matches to the floor. ‘Mikey, I don’t want to hurt you, get out.’

  I tightened my grip as he grabbed at my legs. ‘No,’ I screamed.

  He pulled me from the table, and started dragging me across the floor. I grabbed at the base of a cupboard and he stamped on my hand. I screamed out in pain, and rushed back to the table, this time hanging on to it with my whole strength.

  ‘Mikey,’ he cried. ‘Get out. Please.’

  He leaned down to pick up the matches.

  ‘I’ll do it with you in here, I swear to fucking god I will!’

  As he took several matches from the box, I clamped my eyes shut, tensing my whole body in fear.

  ‘Kenny, please! I love you! I fucking love you! I can’t live without you. You’re the only thing that has ever made me feel happy in my entire life. I can’t let you die and leave me here. Please, Kenny, if you have to do this, I need to go with you. I love you.’

  Twenty seconds later I opened my eyes. The gas was still screaming wildly, and Kenny had slumped to the floor in a heap, weeping uncontrollably.

  I leaped up and started to shut the taps on the gas bottles, struggling because two of the fingers on my right hand, where Kenny had stamped on them, were immoveable.

  I grabbed each gas bottle one by one, dragging them to the trailer door, and rolling them to the ground. Once they were out, I pushed the windows wide open to rid the trailer of the overbearing stench of the gas.

  Kenny didn’t look at me. He pulled himself up onto his bunk and buried his face in his hands, weeping and swearing and shaking his head.

  I heard my father’s truck rumble into the yard. The men had returned from the hunt for Kenny and had come to check if he was here. As Uncle Matthew unlocked the gates, I rushed through the trailer, closing the windows with my left hand.

  Kenny looked up. ‘Mikey?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t tell Matt, will you?’

  The moment had passed. He was not going to say any of the things I longed to hear. I sighed.

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  The voices and the crunch of gravel approached the trailer. Uncle Matthew stepped in, with tears in his eyes.

  ‘Kenny, I’m so sorry mate, you know what I’m like when I …’

  ‘It’s all right, come here.’

  Kenny rose from his bunk and gripped Matthew in a masculine hug.

  My father appeared in the doorway. ‘I thought I told you to get the fuck to bed?’

  ‘He’s all right, Frank,’ said Kenny. ‘He just helped me get back to the trailer, that’s all.’

  My father looked me up and down, narrowing his eyes. ‘What’s up with your hand?’

  ‘I trapped it between two of the tar barrels earlier on. Think I’ve broken my fingers.’

  He shook his head. ‘Got no more sense than a cat’s got cunt, you ain’t. Get out of the trailer, big man, and go up to bed.’

  As I made my way through the yard, I could hear laughter and through the broken door of Kenny’s caravan I could see the group emptying his beer fridge and settling down for part two of their drunken night. It was as if nothing had happened at all.

  I walked home, my fingers throbbing, and my heart cracked. It wasn’t my love that had stopped Kenny from killing us both, it was the realisation that there was someone even more pitiful and wretched than he was.

  And now, after the ordeal, we were both left with a secret to bear.

  When I got back I went into my parents’ trailer and pulled a bottle of vodka and a box of painkilling pills from the chest, and then crept with them to my bed.

  The next day I woke up with a swollen hand, a throbbing headache and a half-full bottle of vodka lying next to me.

  Frankie’s bunk was made and the curtains were open. I pulled back the sheets to find a blanket of vomit. I brushed the crust from my mouth, my chest, my legs and my arms, removed all my clothes, pulled on some tracksuit bottoms, then bundled up the sheets and took them out to the shed. As I waited for the washing machine to begin I glanced through the open shed door. My father’s truck was gone.

  I walked over into my parents’ trailer. It was clean, polished, vacuumed and empty. I grabbed a bacon sandwich that had been left under a plastic cover, and took a bite. The bread was wet with cold fat, mixed with a lashing of tomato ketchup. It tasted good. Then I remembered. The family had all gone down to Tory Manor for the day. I had said I would rather stay at home.

  I thought of Kenny. He hadn’t said anything to my father, otherwise I would have known by now. But he didn’t love me. I was just another Gypsy kid. I wasn’t going anywhere, not with Kenny anyway. And I couldn’t go alone – I wouldn’t be able to survive in a world I didn’t know.

  I searched through the boys’ video collection and pushed The Wizard of Oz into the video player. I took another bite of the sandwich, poured myself a glass of cherryade and lit up one of my father’s cigarettes.

  17

  Regret

  A few days later we were on the move again. By the time we left I still hadn’t faced Kenny, so I didn’t know whether he would want me to ride with him, as usual. As the convoy prepared to leave, I edged closer to his car. I watched as he double-checked the tow-bar between his car and caravan, climbing on top of it and bouncing up and down.

  As he leaped to the ground, he gave me a quick look and smiled. I was so happy – perhaps we were going to be friends again, our secrets – his suicide attempt, my declaration of love – forgotten. But the next moment he slipped into his car and was gone, following the rest of the convoy out of the campsite gate.

  As I stood staring after him, Aunt Minnie pulled up next to me in Old Bessie, as she liked to call her worse-for-wear Ford Sierra. After a failed attempt to get the window to wind down, she shouted, ‘Get your skinny arse in here.’

  Romaine was in the front seat. Aunt Minnie prodded her hard in the neck.

  ‘Get in the back with old Minge.’

  Romaine climbed over to join Frankie and baby Jimmy in the back. I slipped around the front of the b
onnet and yanked open the door, to be enveloped in a cloud of smoke and cheap perfume.

  ‘Welcome to the cool car,’ Frankie hooted, swigging on a gallon bottle of cola, before lighting up a fag. I climbed in and heaved the door shut.

  The next three hours was a marathon of Aunt Minnie’s Whitney, Abba and Barry White tape, mixed with bickering from the back, boy talk and terrible sing-alongs.

  In the middle of a raucous version of Abba’s ‘Voulez-Vous’, Aunt Minnie shocked me by stopping to say, ‘It ain’t right, Uncle Matthew’s dossa wanting to spend so much time with you.’

  My face flushed.

  Aunt Minnie squinted over at me and carried on. ‘I think he fancies you, but don’t mention that, will you? Just be aware of it and stay away from him.’

  I nodded.

  We stopped at the motorway services where Aunt Minnie, still a hardened kleptomaniac, nipped into the shop and reappeared with wine gums and pasties.

  ‘They were the closest things to the door,’ she explained.

  Our next campsite was in a dirty little town, through a dirty little road and up behind a dirty old petrol station, where we were surrounded by several overgrown fields filled with rubbish.

  As we gasped with horror, Romaine giggled, ‘Somebody could do with a goat.’

  The battered gates to the camp hung behind an old shop. The owner, grateful to have anyone use his site, let us in without a single question. He showed us round the site, clutching an iron rake with one hand and clamping a beekeeper’s hat to his head with the other, only removing it to grab the convoy’s first rent payment.

  The camp had only one electric box with six sockets, and the toilet cubicle consisted of four walls and no toilet; just a large cesspool to dump toilet buckets in.